Diary Entry - Flood

Friday 22 September 2023

  We weren't really aware of it before it came. Three days of constant downpour. The flood took everything. The houses, the cows and the sheep. It took the crops and the mountain roads. Shops drowned in floating dairy and offices transformed into swamps of rotting paper forms. The waterworks destroyed and everyone left without electricity and running water. Cars taken by the sea. Villages being cut off civilization. A few dead.

  That was three weeks ago.

  Today, we still don't have quality running water. The toxic waste and the dead animals are still in it. The frantic mob is out for the hunt of overpriced bottled water. We're still shoveling the dirt from the mountain that came down on us brown and sickly, from our pavements. Filling forms and complaints against the city for compensation money for our lost property. The supermarkets offer discounts on all products as an act of solidarity. The original prices have gone up beforehand though.

  It's a Friday at the end of September and there's heat, unbearable humidity and a constant cloud of dust. The weather forecast predicted a second downpour come Tuesday. The land can't take no more. And the city is not ready.

  Today the mayor announced that by Monday the Christmas decorations will begin. Maybe it's the sky of blue lights which causes epilepsy. Maybe it's the festive spirit of a pure adolescent childhood which compels us. Or maybe, it's just the firm belief of our mayor that we'll make it to December. We're in for three long months. 

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Excerpts of the Sleepless Cycle - Bass

My bass guitar was broken. I knew that but I couldn't quite define what exactly was wrong with it. The neck was too short. Like it was broken and then roughly been put back together with most of the middle part missing. So the neck was too short. I could see that, but I couldn't realize the problem in it. It seemed natural. It must be something else wrong with it.

My friends tried to persuade me that there's nothing wrong with the bass. It's just in my mind. I didn't lend it to the squat guys so that they can practice and they mistreated it. They didn't disrespect my offer and my willing sacrifice. At the back of my mind there was always the idea that I could not trust these people, but I always pushed that thought away. Because we are supposed to be the good guys. The ones who care. The empathy team.

But now my bass guitar is broken. It looks weird and unnatural and the neck is too short. And yet I still can't pinpoint that that's what's wrong with it. My friends insist it's just my imagination. Why do they do that? They're supposed to be my friends. They're supposed to tell me when I can't see what's in front of me.

The bass guitar is resting on a chair at the far end of the room. It's so hard to pick it up again now. The thick layer of dust would mean I'd have to clean it up first, and I can't go into all that trouble.

So maybe I'll say that it's broken.

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